


courferre week prompts

by owlinaminor



Series: courferre week 2k14 [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Courferre Week, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I asked people to send me prompts on tumblr in honor of courferre week; these are some of the results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fake dating?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous sent: “Hi, congrats on reaching the 500! I know this is not very original but could you perhaps write something about Courferre fake dating, please? I'd prefer it if they'd get together for real, but if you want to have them simply trolling the rest of Les Amis, I'd still be super interested. Thanks :)”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, I actually kind-of don’t like the fake dating trope? like, there are plenty of cute fics with it, but the whole miscommunication as a plot device thing really annoys me. so I sort-of wrote fake dating, but I sort-of didn’t. here it goes.

It’s a typical Friday night.  Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sitting side by side on Courfeyrac’s bed, watching old episodes of Parks and Recreation on Combeferre’s laptop, celebrating the fact that they have an entire seventy-two hours before their next classes.

They’re halfway through season three and Leslie Knope is completely losing her shit when Courfeyrac suddenly says, “Ferre, I have an idea.”

Combeferre pauses the video and gives him a Look.  (Bossuet once described Combeferre’s Look as, “It’s like your dad just found out you completely trashed his nice, new car and he doesn’t usually get mad but this car was his baby and you are literally so dead.”  The Look can terrify mere mortals to the point of no return.  Courfeyrac is, at this point, mostly immune, but it still gives him chills.)

“Is this a _good_ idea?” Combeferre asks.

“It’s a _great_ idea,” Courfeyrac replies.  “It’s, like, the Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail of ideas.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“C’mon, Ferre, when have I ever let you down?” Courfeyrac wheedles.

Before Combeferre can answer that, he adds, “Just hear me out, please?”

Combeferre sighs.  “Okay, fine.  But no promises.”

“Alright!”  Courfeyrac fist-pumps triumphantly.  “The idea is ...”  He pauses, for suspense.  “We should fake-date.”

The room is silent for a long moment as Combeferre’s eyebrow goes from slightly incredulous to seriously concerned.  “Why?” he finally says.

“Because, um, it would be funny?” Courfeyrac offers.  “I mean, our friends would be so surprised!  Imagine the look on Enjolras’ face.  And Joly would go _nuts_ , oh man.  Do you think Jehan would write us poetry?  ‘Cause I totally think he would –”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, effectively cutting off the tirade.  “Have you thought this through at all?  Like, what would we say when they ask us how we got together?  How would we keep up the appearance of a relationship without them suspecting?  What would we do to end the charade?”

Courfeyrac’s face calls, like a puppy whose favorite toy has just been taken away.  “I don’t know, I just figured, you’re smart, you could work out all that stuff ... But if you don’t want to do it, then, I guess ...”

“It’s not that – well.”  Combeferre looks down at Courfeyrac’s bed, traces the pattern of blue and gold on the blanket.  “What’s the point of fake-dating when you can ... When you can date for real?”

Courfeyrac is pretty sure his lungs just stopped working for a second.

“I – I mean,” Combeferre continues, disheartened by the lack of response, “if you just thought that it would be a good joke and you didn’t mean anything by it, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to – I just really like you, like, I normally don’t get romantic feelings for people but you’re the exception and I’d hate to pretend to date you without really meaning any of it, even if it’s just for our friends and –”

Courfeyrac can’t hold himself back any longer – he leans in and kisses Combeferre, square on the lips.

Combeferre is still for a moment, surprised, but then he smiles against Courfeyrac’s mouth and parts his lips to let Courfeyrac in – tastes peppermint and cafeteria coffee and the cookies they ate together earlier.

When they pull apart, both of them are grinning.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that flustered before,” Courfeyrac says, laughing a little.

Combeferre goes red.  It’s adorable.  “So is that a –”

“I’ve got a really good idea, now,” Courfeyrac tells him.  “How about we date?  For real?”

“Yes, you idiot,” Combeferre answers almost immediately.  And he grabs Courfeyrac by the collar and brings him in closer to kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://liberteegalitehomosexualite.tumblr.com/) and send me a prompt, if you like! :)


	2. the first to fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous sent: “courferre where courf dies in a protest BUT theyre engaged and so as combeferre's holding him after having dragged him into a quiet, relatively safe location, they say their vows really quick and then combeferre realizes he's a widow?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay first of all, I hate the person who sent me something this painful. second of all, since they sent me painful, I decided to go maximum pain. and I wrote with fem!courf, because ... well, you’ll see.

_“There’s a boy coming over the barricade!”_

Combeferre rushes forward the moment he recognizes the climber – tan coat disguising her figure and green cap hiding her auburn curls, but there’s no way it could be anyone else.  The fighting’s not too bad right now and spirits are still high, but still, he didn’t want her anywhere near the place, and it may have just been his imagination, but he can swear he heard a shot when she clambered over the top of the barricade –

Courfeyrac jumps nimbly down from a table stacked precariously near the bottom of the barricade and puts a hand on a nearby chair to steady herself, her green eyes bright and sparkling beneath her cap.

“Hi, Ferre,” she says, as gaily as though this is just another night at the Musain.

Combeferre crosses the last couple of meters to get to her and grabs both of her hands in his.  The plain, gold band on her finger knocks against his, the metal cold and uncomforting.  “Courfeyrac, what are you doing here?” he hisses.  “This is no place for you!”

“I know.”  She smiles.  “Still, I had to tell Marius I delivered his letter.  And I wanted to be with you.”

Her smile is as beautiful as the first time Combeferre saw it, and all he wants is to bundle her up in blankets and keep her safe and warm and far, far away from here – but he is, he is so glad to see her, see her okay –

“You _are_ okay, aren’t you?” he asks her, suddenly desperate.  He looks at her carefully, up and down, from the boots on her feet to the top of her head and back again, and – oh, no.

His hand goes slowly, trembling, to the dark spot on her jacket.

“Oh, that?  That’s nothing.”  Courfeyrac laughs, but her laugh is breathless and her brow is drawn.

Combeferre carefully peels away her coat to find a circle of bright red, the color of their flag.

“I’m sorry, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac whispers.  And she falls – collapses into his arms.  She is so heavy.  Too heavy.

He sits at the bottom of the barricade, not caring who can see.  It’s as though the world has slowly slowed and narrowed, to only him and this beautiful, wonderful, _stupid_ girl flickering out before his very eyes.

“You can’t,” he says, voice half-whisper half-sob.  “It’s too son.  We were going to get married, Courfeyrac –”

She reaches up and cups his cheek, her hand cold and clammy.  “We can still get married,” she whispers.  “Don’t say that we can’t, Combeferre, please.”

“I got the certificate last week,” Bahorel says, from a few steps away.

Combeferre looks up and realizes that, somehow, without his noticing, all of their friends have gathered in a half-circle around them.

“I have the rings,” Enjolras says, reaching into his coat pocket.

“We can all provide witness,” Joly adds.  Bossuet, standing next to him, nods and grabs Joly’s hand.  Joly, in turn, grabs Jehan’s hand, and in a few seconds, all of their friends are linked together.  When he imagined his wedding, Combeferre had always pictured a small church, and endless flowers, and Courfeyrac in a lovely, white dress (Enjolras had said that fancy weddings were a tool of the patriarchy, but Courfeyrac had told him she wanted to look pretty, had _insisted_ ) – but this, sitting on a barricade with all of his friends around him –

Even in the face of losing the one person he can’t live without, Combeferre is surrounded by love.  He couldn’t ask for a better wedding.

Courfeyrac must feel the same way, because she smiles and gives Bahorel a nod.  He pulls out a crumpled slip of paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and begins to read.

“Do you, Jacques Combeferre, take Amia Courfeyrac to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?”

Combeferre tightens his hold on Courfeyrac’s hand.  He looks into her green eyes and wishes he could drown there, curl up into a ball in her chest and stay there forever.  “I do.”

“And do you, Amia Courfeyrac, take Jacque Combeferre to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?”

Courfeyrac smiles, and it is the most beautiful thing Combeferre has ever seen.  “I do.”

On his cheek, Combeferre begins to feel the first drops of rain.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Bahorel says.  “You may now kiss the bride.”

Combeferre closes his eyes and gives his new wife the lightest of kisses, softer than the rain now falling on her skin.  Her lips are sweet, and he could swear he can smell flowers in her hair.

She is very still.

He pulls away and opens his eyes.  Her eyes will never open again.  And the rain continues – the whole sky is weeping for his beautiful girl.  His beautiful, wonderful, too good for this world girl.

Combeferre was a husband – and then not a husband – so quickly.  He doesn’t want to be a widower.  Not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://liberteegalitehomosexualite.tumblr.com/) and send me a prompt, if you like! :)


	3. and then suddenly hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dicaeopolis sent: “they r at the beach for the day and then suddenly hurricane (I dont mean like Eponine Thenardier I mean like an actual hurricane with wind and rain and shit) and the like 20 beachgoers have to hide under one of the apartment buildings facing the beach and idk maybe marius and cosette are living in one of those buildings for the summer and they invite literally the entire group in for showers and coffee”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I may have fucked up this one a little because I was writing it in the car, so I didn’t remember the whole thing, I just remembered the ‘they’re at the beach for a day and then suddenly hurricane’ part. so the fic sort-of went in a different direction from there. but still, I think it’s pretty cute, so.

It’s a beautiful day at the beach.

The sun is shining, the wind is refreshing without being annoying, the seagulls are calling overhead, the ocean is a comforting lull in the background, and Combeferre is almost finished with his book.  His friends are all around him somewhere nearby, most of them playing in the water or helping with Bahorel’s attempt to build the greatest sandcastle known to man.  He could help them, he supposes, but Combeferre is a guy who knows how to appreciate the simple things – namely, warmth, a soft towel, and a good book.  He’d be content to stay here for hours, honestly, without schoolwork or protests or anything serious demanding his attention.

Of course, the moment he makes that decision is the exact moment that the clouds decide to open up on him.

Seriously, one moment, everything is sunny and warm and perfect, and the next, rain is pounding straight into his very bones.  The sky is dim and dark like something out of a horror movie, and the wind now threatens to pick him up and carry him off if he isn’t careful.

In command as always, Enjolras starts barking orders to all of their friends in earshot: “Grab everything you can carry whether it’s yours or not and run to the car as fast as you can!”

Joly, Bossuet, Eponine, and Grantaire, who had been swimming when the storm hit, immediately rush onto the beach and grab their towels.  Bahorel abandons his sandcastle with a forlorn glance, then stands and goes to bundle up the huge beach umbrella.  For his part, Combeferre jams all of the loose items he can reach into his bag, then hoists it into his arms along with two beach chairs and a couple of towels.

Before taking off, he looks around to make sure that Courfeyrac is okay.  He finds him to his left, helping Cosette pack the remnants of their picnic lunch into the cooler.

“Hey, Cosette!” Combeferre shouts.

She looks up and gives him a confident grin.

“Take care of him, would you?  I’ve only got one boyfriend, and I don’t want him to be carried away by a hurricane.”

Cosette laughs and gives Combeferre a quick salute before returning to packing up food.

With his boyfriend left in competent hands, Courfeyrac feels much safer about starting to sprint to the car.  He’s in decent shape and he’s never been a bad runner, but this harsh rain is something else.  Ever step is an effort, the wind seems to have a specific agenda of knocking as much out os his hands as possible, and the humidity is fogging up his glasses so much, he can barely see.

After what seems like an age, however, Combeferre finally makes it to the car (Joly’s mom’s van, the only car that can hold their whole group), and drops his load in the trunk and his butt in the driver’s seat.  Courfeyrac and Cosette arrive a minute later, hoisting the cooler between them.  (Combeferre has to make a calculated effort not to look at Courfeyrac for too long, because his hair is wet and his T-shirt is sticking to his chest and that is Very Distracting.)

Everyone has piled in and Combeferre is just about to start the car when a thought hits him like a shark falling out of the sky.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses.

Combeferre rarely curses – aloud, anyway – so the car immediately goes silent.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I forgot my book at the beach,” Combeferre explains. “It’s no big deal, it’s just – it was from the school library, the fines will be huge, and I was almost done with it ...”

Courfeyrac holds up his hands.  “Say no more.”

“What?”

Courfeyrac pushes open the passenger door (he’s called shotgun for eternity whenever Combeferre is driving and the others are hard-pressed to argue) and sprints off into the storm before anyone can say another word.

Combeferre is rarely speechless, but he can safely say that this is one of those times.

Ten minutes pass – ten minutes split between wondering about his boyfriend and fending off lewd comments from his friends.  (“Man, I wish _I_ had a boyfriend like that.”  “What are you doing for him in the bedroom that makes him that eager to please, Ferre?”)

And then, just before Grantaire can make a particularly rude gesture, Courfeyrac appears in the distance, carrying the book over his head like a trophy.

Even though it’s still pouring rain outside, everyone cranks open the windows to cheer him on: “C’mon, Courf you got this!”  “Run, Courf, run!”  “PIERRE LOUIS COURFEYRAC WE HAVE ONE MORE COOKIE AND IF YOU DON’T GET HERE IN TEN SECONDS I WILL EAT IT I SWEAR TO GOD.”

He grits his teeth, puts on one last burst of speed, and makes it to the van in record time.  Combeferre holds the door open for him as he slides into the passenger seat, book still held aloft.

Courfeyrac presents the book to his boyfriend with a flourish.  It’s soaked through and the cover is hanging by a thread, but at this point, Combeferre doesn’t particularly care.

He grabs Courfeyrac by the practically obsolete collar and drags him in, then proceeds to kiss him senseless.

“So, am I getting lucky tonight?” Courfeyrac asks when they pull apart, grinning.

Combeferre shoves him back to his side of the car.  “Not _now_ you aren’t.”

(But he is.  Of course he is.  Courfeyrac gets lucky every night, and it’s painfully obvious.)

And they drive away to the sound of their friends’ laughter.


End file.
